


The Unground Ax

by gogglor



Category: The Wizard Of Oz (1939), The Wizard of Oz & Related Fandoms
Genre: Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:35:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21873802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gogglor/pseuds/gogglor
Summary: Both the Wicked Witch of the West and the Tin Man must take shelter every time it rains. Once, they took shelter together.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 18





	The Unground Ax

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this based on a prompt for my writing club and liked the way it turned out, so I figured I'd share it. Please note I am not steeped in Oz canon and this isn't my typical fandom, so I hope you'll excuse any canon errors.

The Tin Man was tremendously grateful he had no muscles to move. He’d made it into his shack just in time before the morning rain had started to fall and had been planning on a pleasant afternoon by a roaring fire with an excellent book on the fascinating new field of heart transplants when his door had opened with a BANG. In strode the Wicked Witch of the West herself, breathing heavily and furiously scrubbing her exposed skin with a handkerchief. He remained completely still as he watched her hang up her cloak and hat and settle herself into one of the two chairs by the fire. He was content to continue pretending to be a curious statue in the corner until--

“I don’t curse those who give me hospitality. Stop pretending to be a sculpture and come sit.”

The Tin Man blinked, and, deciding it was best not to defy a wicked witch, he came and sat down. The Witch took off her shoes and started warming her feet, then reached into her bag and pulled out some knitting needles. She appeared to be making red and white striped stockings.

“Need some oil, Tin Man? Your eyes seem to be rusted in place,” she sneered.

“I’m sorry,” said the Tin Man as he looked away, “it’s not often I have guests, let alone such… distinguished ones.”

“Don’t worry your metal head, I’ll be on my way just as soon as the rain stops.”

“So will I. Being made of tin, the rain… well, it doesn’t agree with me.”

The Witch let out a small chuckle. “It doesn’t agree with me either,” she said, as though it were a private joke.

“Well, for you it’s unpleasant but I actually can’t--”

“I didn’t come here to be contradicted,” said the Witch curtly.

The Tin Man shut his mouth with an audible clang. The Witch may have promised not to curse him for now, but there was no such promise for what would happen as soon as she recrossed his threshold.

The two sat in silence for some time, before the Witch said, “I suppose you wouldn’t have anything to eat.”

“Actually I do,” said the Tin Man, “There are cans in the cupboard. I use the tin for the occasional patch job, but you’re welcome to the food inside.”

The Witch gave him a look as if debating his likelihood to poison her, then put her knitting aside and walked over to the cupboard. The Tin Man didn’t want to risk getting caught staring twice, so he opened the book he had been planning to read and pretended to read as he listened to her rummage through the cabinets.

“Do you have a name?” asked the Witch as she placed a half open can of beans next to the embers.

“Everyone just calls me 'Tin Woodman,' or 'Tin Man,'” said the Tin Man.

“Everyone calls me ‘Wicked Witch,’” said the Witch, “Nothing wrong with a name that matches you.”

“I’d much rather be a George or a Simon,” said the Tin Man, sadly, “or at least something about what I do, not what I look like. Like a Woodcutter, or a Reader.”

“You like to read?” said the Witch, her curiosity piqued.

“Oh I _love_ to read!” the Tin Man gushed, “I used to read all the time. But then your sister burned down the Oz library, and…” the Tin Man trailed off sadly. He’d cried so much that day his face had rusted, and it wouldn’t do to cry in front of company.

The Witch pressed her lips together disapprovingly. “I had a word with her about that,” she said, “Terrorize the munchkins all you like, I said, but leave the books alone, they’re a magic all their own and not to be trifled with.”

“Exactly!” said the Tin Man, “Long after I’ve rusted into dust, our books will carry our lives and voices far into the future.”

“What’s that you’re reading now?” asked the wicked Witch.

They talked about books for hours. The Wicked Witch didn’t care much for the Tin Man’s beloved poets, but she shared his ardent enthusiasm for science fiction. In fact, they got so caught up in conversation, it took the sun shining off the Tin Man’s armor into her eyes before she noticed the rain had stopped a long time ago.

The moment she did realize it, however, a different kind of cloud came over her face. The Witch stood up quickly and waved her hands. Her belongings quickly put themselves back in her travel case and her cloak and hat flew into her hands. The Tin Man’s ax even straightened a bit by the door in the Witch’s haste to put away her things and be on her way.

“Wait,” said the Tin Man, “the sun will be setting soon. You’re welcome to--”

“Tin Man,” said the Witch with cold iron in her voice as she straightened her hat, “you would do well to remember with whom you are speaking.”

“Well, I was hoping I was speaking to a friend,” he said.

He had said the wrong thing. The Witch grabbed her broom, stepped over the threshold, and put her hand on the doorjamb.

“Never,” she breathed, “ _Never._ ”

And just like that, the shack was on fire. The Tin Man heard the Wicked Witch cackle as she took off on her broom and he rushed into the house to save what few belongings he had. When he eventually stood outside with his things and watched his home reduce to cinders, the Tin Man berated himself for being so foolish. The shack was a simple one, and he could easily replace it with a week or two of labor, but he’d have no place to shelter from the rain in the meantime. In fact, he was rebuilding the shack when another rain storm caught him, and it wasn’t until a kind girl named Dorothy and her friend the Scarecrow oiled his hinges that he was free to move again.

Years later, the Scarecrow, Lion, and Tin Man were finishing a pleasant amble through the Emerald City’s gardens. “You know,” said the Scarecrow, “I’ve seen you carry that ax for years, and I’ve seen you use it many times. But I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you sharpen it.”

“You’re right,” said the Tin Man, “Some time around when you and Dorothy found me, it stopped ever needing to be sharpened again.”

“Glinda told me there’s magic in friendship,” said the Lion, “Maybe that’s what happened.”

“Yeah,” said the Tin Man, “Maybe that’s what happened.”


End file.
